


Bloodsport

by josafiend



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, Kimando, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:29:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josafiend/pseuds/josafiend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bernie's new regulations change everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloodsport

Fernando swept through the garage, across the paddock and in through the open door of his motor-home, pulling his helmet and balaclava off as he walked. His stride remained unbroken until he reached the cool solitude of his private room, where he locked himself within and leaned against the red plastic, finally letting the tears tumble down his cheeks.

Five seconds.

The difference between survival and certain termination had been five seconds, and if his front wing had given up earlier than the Force India had beached itself in the gravel it would have been him being dragged away by the marshals, kicking and screaming for his life like Adrian had.

There was no coming back once the marshals took you away.

Fernando thought back to the season Formula One had changed. The year when Bernie finally lost his mind, but had become so powerful that nobody dared to question him, or his team, when the rule was brought in to make races more competitive by killing off the first to exit the race. Whether it be mechanical retirement, fault of another, or your own stupidity, if you left the race first you were gone, over, extinct.

Bernie was in charge now. Not even a man anymore, but a consciousness driven by technology, still making the decisions from a central control. Only able to die now by the flicking of a switch which was so well protected from threats you’d be tracked down and killed before you made it ten yards.

He punched the wall in bitter frustration, as he recalled the moment of adrenaline laced terror that had shocked his body into pissing itself the moment the wing end plate detached itself and embedded into his front right tyre. The realisation that he had seen nobody leave the track yet, no radio messages to say he was safe. It was only when he arrived in the gravel to see the white, orange and green car having its driver forcibly extricated, that his body heaved a sigh of relief.

The marshals had power now too. Not just flag waving imbeciles, like in the old days. These men and women wielded pistols and tazers, ready to take down a driver if they refused to comply. Once they were subdued they were taken to the stewards, and you never saw them again.

Fernando rubbed his eyes, trying to wipe away the memory of Adrian, screaming for mercy, blaming the Force India’s ever overheating brakes and his team’s incompetence. The exact same thing had happened in Australia two weeks before hand, but at least they had the advantage of Sergio coming off worse in a tangle with his team-mate. Jenson had limped back to the pits with a puncture, but the Mexican’s race was over, and the marshals came.

A knock at the door startled him, opening it he found Andrea on the other side, his face ashen and drawn. The life of a race engineer was no longer a relationship that rode the rollercoaster of wins and loses; it was a man on the pit-wall trying to keep his friend in the cockpit alive.

Andrea threw his arms around Fernando. ‘I thought I’d lost you. Five seconds’

The Spaniard sniffed. ‘I know, I’m okay, Andrea.’

‘The press?’

‘I’ll be out there soon.’

He rubbed his face with a cool towel, listening to the whine of the engines as the remaining competitors tore down the pit straight. It would be a regular fight for the finish now, the fear of the stewards was gone, they could race like they used to.

A small group of reporters awaited him when he finally emerged from the motor-home. They pushed and shoved each other to get their microphones closest to him for their questions.

‘Fernando, you evaded the stewards by only four point eight seconds today, how do you feel?’

He thought about the question carefully. Did he feel lucky? Was it skill that saved his front wing end plate from coming away earlier? They would have seen the footage of him clipping the Sauber’s diffuser on the screens, so there would be no denying the damage was his own fault.

‘I think today I will be thankful for my life. It is hard to lose a driver, and my thoughts are with the family of Adrian today. I will be working towards my next race in Monaco, and hoping for to see the chequered flag, of course.’

He finished the interview with his trademark lopsided grin, despite the tightness in his chest that made him just want to scream, and headed to the pit wall to sit beside Andrea and watch the remainder of the race.

The first car to round the final bend was one of the Mercedes’ with a black and gold Lotus in hot pursuit. The second place car was visibly running within the required second to qualify for the DRS advantage and the rear wing sprang open as the cars passed beneath the light gantry. Fernando’s eyes followed the Lotus, now easily identified as Kimi Raikkonen, as it pulled out of the slipstream and inched past the Silver Arrow belonging to Lewis Hamilton. The move was clean and the Lotus swung around turn one in first place.

Fernando’s eyes lifted to the crowd in the opposite grandstand. There were many empty seats now, the fans preferring to leave the circuit once they knew who would be going to the stewards. Instead of the old carnival atmosphere and the gestures of support, many of them made signs to distract or unfocus the drivers; some even wished termination upon them directly. He could see a banner being waved near the top, bearing the two Force India drivers and huge letters between their faces reading ‘R.I.P’, Fernando wondered how much joy the owners were getting from seeing Adrian race his last that day.

Bernie had turned Formula One into a blood sport and the fans were insatiable in their thirst for it.

He sighed at the impossible futility of it. It was the drivers racing each other for glory between themselves now, because nobody else cared. It wasn’t about money anymore, or trophies, or status, or anything else normal. It was about staying alive.

The new regulations came in slowly, at the end of 2013, individual clauses that contained areas of small print so vague that even the team’s legal departments had to spend hours pouring over the documents. At the time the regulation under scrutiny hadn’t had a lot of consequence; the new rule that drivers were signed into contracts with teams up to and inclusive of their fortieth year. They were permitted to switch teams, but not leave the sport. It was after these clauses were signed and drivers confirmed that the most stomach churning regulation was written in; that any driver who retires first from a race, regardless of reason, would be terminated. Any race which contained no retirees would result in the last placed driver being terminated.

It was brutally sly of Bernie’s team to bring in the regulations in stages, but legally the teams had no room for manoeuvre, the people around him made him bulletproof. The signatures represented a fully binding contract, and at the age of thirty five, Fernando was tied into his deal with Ferrari for another five years.

Fernando rest his head on his hands, still trying to block out the image of Adrian being carried away, struggling against the marshals holding his arms and legs. He had begged them; the only option left to him, to let him go, Fernando had heard his pitiful bargaining through the padding of his helmet. The marshals didn’t include mercy in their skill set; they were just drones working for the stewards and sometimes he wondered if they even had consciences, to carry out the job they did.

The chequered flag fell. Kimi had won the race by seventeen seconds and the last remaining people in the crowd showed their appreciation for the Finn’s efforts by lobbing empty bottles and fast food containers onto the track as he passed.

Fernando shook his head, remembering the days when the passionate roar of the crowd could penetrate the cockpit above the scream of the engine behind. The fans back then could lift a driver to do well for them, and they as drivers would repay the support with results. Not now though. They wanted to watch you die, now that it had been made part of the show, and they didn’t have to hide behind any lies. They wanted the chaos and the blood, and Bernie happily gave it to them.

It was hours later that Fernando, wrapped in a plain grey coat with his features hidden beneath a cap, slipped across the paddock past the line of support vehicles. He knocked four times on the access door at the back of the Lotus truck and was quickly pulled inside.

Kimi’s lips found his before he had a chance to speak, but it was not passionate, or lustful. Fernando knew from the way the Finn clutched at his collar that Kimi’s kiss was overwhelmed with relief.

‘It’s okay, Kimi.’

Fernando could feel the body against him shaking in the darkness.

‘It’s not okay. None of this is okay, at all. I thought you were dead.’

Kimi broke away and sank down on to his haunches, raking his fingers through his hair and causing his cap to drop to the truck’s steel floor.

Fernando stooped to pick it up. ‘I’m not dead. Adrian’s dead. We can’t do anything about this; we just have to get on with it.’

He reached down to Kimi with the intention of pulling him upright, but the Finn slapped his hand away. ‘No! Why should we have to?’

‘Keep your fucking voice down, you shouldn’t be speaking like this and I shouldn’t even be here.’ Fernando hissed. ‘They’ll fuck with your car if they hear you; you know that, they did it to Heikki!’

At the mention of his countryman’s name the colour drained from Kimi’s face. It was an unwritten rule in Formula One now, that you didn’t really mention the ones who were gone. Heikki Kovalainen had tried to make a stand against the regulations, and had paid the price when his fuel rig was tampered with by the stewards and his race came to an end four yards short of the pit lane. Fernando remembered the frantic Caterham mechanics trying to lean over the white line to pull the car in, but it was just too far away. Heikki was marched in by the marshals, his head held high as he went. In some respects the drivers felt that Heikki had gone out on his own terms, but it sent a message to the rest of the grid; you didn’t disrespect the stewards.

‘Please Kimi? We’re leaving for Monaco in the morning.’

He held out the hand again and Kimi took it, guiding him to the stolen mattress and collection of blankets that would be their bed for the evening.

Drivers were not allowed to mix socially nor professionally. Within a team the crews were now separate entities, team orders were abolished and all drivers were to race for the win. If your team-mate had a better wing set up, your crew would set out to copy that set up, or steal the wing, or damage it in such a way that the advantage was no longer available.

Fernando was still at Ferrari with Felipe, but endless seasons of favouritism and unpaid back promises had left the Brazilian bitter and eager for revenge. On two separate occasions Fernando had found himself counting the cost of grid penalties for mysterious gearbox problems. He thanked his stars that Felipe was not vindictive enough to sabotage his races with breakdowns, only hinder his qualification and grid position. Fernando knew how to fight his way up from a shitty position, but coasting in with a gearbox stuck in second would be a little trickier, especially if there were no retirements that race.

The relationship he had with Kimi would be a noose around both of their necks, but they had found sanctuary within each others company. Only they could truly understand what went through their minds each time they lined up to take the lights, or the ball clenching fear that gripped them when they knew they weren’t going to make it back to the pits. Fernando knew exactly what thoughts had tormented Kimi the second he passed the scarlet Ferrari; he would have needed to know if he was first, he would have demanded to know the answer from his race engineer, who would not have been able to give it. He would have quite possibly screamed his rage at the crew on the pit wall, who would have turned his radio off in the fear that the stewards would pick it up and punish him.

Unbeknownst to Fernando would be the fact that Kimi had driven the remainder of the race grief stricken, already trying to work out how to face the media packs who hounded drivers for their opinion on what had happened to those taken to the stewards. Kimi hadn’t even realised he’d won until he got out of the car and was directed to the podium when he’d headed off in search of his engineer.

The night after each race they would spend together, gratefully sharing the fact that they had survived again. Sometimes they talked about the driver that had been terminated; sometimes they lay in silence with their bodies in constant contact, just needing to feel another human being instead of the sterility of their own teams. Whatever they did, they had come to rely on each other for mental support and emotional stability, each proving to be a mirror image of their outside persona. Kimi was cold and quiet in public, but hot tempered and impulsive behind the closed doors of the truck, whereas Fernando’s passionate nature endeared him to the blood hungry fans, but within the confines of their friendship was found to be the perfect calming antidote for Kimi when he lost control.

‘What if we fought back?’

Fernando’s heart sank at the sound of Kimi’s whispered words.

‘There is no fight, Kimi, and they’ll kill you for trying. They’ll call it a breach of your contract and they’ll take you away to make an example. They’re too strong.’

Kimi snorted and turned away, leaving his companion to stare blankly up into the darkness.

This desire in Kimi to rebel against the stewards had been getting more and more pronounced. His instinctive need for fairness meant he still couldn’t quite accept the world he was now living in, and his media appearances showed a man who was teetering on the verge of what he wanted to say, instead of what he should. Fernando was privately terrified that one day the stewards would tire of these miniature, oh-so-close to the bone, outbursts and realise that it wasn’t an act. Hatred was pushing Kimi towards a decision which could become a very real death sentence if he didn’t reign in his mouth.

Fernando felt the mattress shift and a warm hand creep around his waist. Lifting his arm he cradled Kimi like a child against his shoulder, feeling his breath ghost across his neck and the thud of his heart through his chest.

He didn’t deny him the closeness, but he wondered why it was Kimi who needed the comfort. The Finn had experienced the grief of a man who had believed he had lost someone; Fernando had survived termination by five measly seconds.

‘Promise me you won’t go talking to people, Kimi. It’s not like it was before, the other guys, it’s not about winning and losing anymore.’

The arm around his stomach tensed, but there was no response.

‘Kimi?’

‘Yes, okay, I promise.’ He quietly replied.

Fernando dropped a kiss into his hair, stroking the soft skin on his back until they found enough peace to fall asleep.

 

The crowd was cheering; huge waves of appreciation mixed with jeers and yelled insults. Kimi slammed the motor-home door and stuffed the headphones of his iPod into his ears. He didn’t want to hear them, as he knew exactly what had caused the excitement; the race by race run down of drivers who had been terminated had begun on the circuit’s huge screens, complete with replays of the moment their races ended, and their subsequent journey to the stewards.

Kimi didn’t see the point of it all. It was one thing enjoying the accidents back in the old days, but to actually want drivers to die? What Bernie had done to Formula One wasn’t right and it definitely wasn’t fair. What had he, or any of them, done to deserve this?

He glanced through the heavily tinted glass down the paddock, seeing the familiar face of his old friend Sebastian walking past. The German had qualified on pole for the race and was the odds on favourite to walk away with the victory the following day. Kimi was in second place beside him and he was overjoyed to be at the front, a clear track out ahead of him, which meant less wheels to tangle with at turn one. All he had to do was bury his right foot and get the hell out of there. The only problem was Fernando, who had once again been on the receiving end of his team-mate’s deviousness, this time having no access to his own telemetry; Felipe had instructed his crew to change the passwords to the computers. This had pushed the Spaniard down to eleventh, right in the middle of the predicted melee.

Kimi had been thinking about the promise he’d made to Fernando all week, trying to work out a way to get around it without betraying the Spaniard’s trust.

All he needed to do was to speak to one person who would listen long enough to understand what his plan was, because in his mind he knew it could work. The only driver he knew he could trust was Fernando, but if he could convince someone, maybe Seb, to hear him out… they used to be friends, maybe he’d remember.

It was a chance he was willing to take to make a stand.

 

The following day Kimi climbed into the cockpit of his Lotus, glancing down the grid towards the Ferrari where Fernando was sitting, staring out of his helmet, straight ahead, collecting his thoughts before the race. As Mark strapped him into his seat, Kimi’s gaze wandered to the residents of Monte Carlo, who hung from their apartment balconies, and windows, they were smiling and laughing. These were the same people who, barely two years ago, cheered him on to win, but now he wondered how many of them were looking down at him hoping it’d be his name on the circuit screens in Canada. As his eyes swept the line of buildings they came to rest on a small boy who was sitting with his legs dangling through the bars of the iron balcony rail. He was wearing a cap with the Red Bull logo on the front and his hand gripped the shaft of a German flag, his face alive with excitement as the cars below roared into life. Just as Kimi was about to pull his visor down, he and the boy locked eyes, the child’s smile dropped immediately, and he pulled his finger across his throat in a long definite gesture that made Kimi’s blood run cold.

 

It was a miracle that they had made it through the first corner cleanly. Despite the usual jostle for position and a very glancing brush of tyres, all twenty-four cars kept the procession going around the streets of Monaco. Kimi’s plan to keep out of trouble had worked and he sat patiently, in the turbulence of Sebastian’s slipstream, wondering if he could just ride it out to the finish. Second place wasn’t too bad after the win in the previous race; he could write this one off and focus on getting his point across to Seb as soon as possible.

He kept an eye out for the Ferrari pit board as he passed crossed the start-finish line, hoping to see Fernando’s physio still standing there. He hadn’t heard the safety notification on the radio, which mean all of them were still running and if it stayed this way it would be the man in last place who would be terminated.

When the flag fell still nobody had retired and it was an agonising wait to find out who would be bringing his car in last. Kimi pulled into the second place parking spot, and climbed from the cockpit, sensing the nervous atmosphere the second he pulled his helmet off. Nobody was smiling, but the crowd was going crazy. The only significant indication that Sebastian had won the race was the firm handshake he’d received from Christian, and the pat on the back from Adrian Newey.

The tail-enders streamed down the pit straight, desperate to take the flag before each other. There was no sentiment now, just man against man in a battle for survival.

Kimi was heading for the driver’s rest room when he heard the sickening crunch and he knew it had to be the last two drivers, desperation pushing them across the line they all hoped they wouldn’t have to cross. Splintered carbon fibre scattered down the tarmac in the wake of the two cars, still travelling at an incredible speed, as they hurtled towards the wall at the first corner, which they hit with a heavy thud.

The marshals headed to the scene of the crash, a Torro Rosso and a Marussia involved, and began hauling the drivers out. There was a problem though, only one of them was conscious. Jean Eric Vergne, who had half climbed, half fought his way past the marshals, was desperately trying to get to Max Chilton as they signalled to the pit wall that they weren’t able to revive him. Kimi glanced at the screens, the British driver’s head sat at such an unnatural angle it was clear his neck was broken.

Jean Eric’s face contorted with rage as a sheet was pulled across the cockpit, his emotion turning quickly to disbelief as the marshals began marching him back across the track.

Kimi watched as the Frenchman twisted in their grip.

‘What’s going on? You can’t terminate me? Max has… he… you can’t do this! You’ve got your kill!’

The crowd cheered, throwing their bottles in a now traditional display of disrespect, laughing and pointing at the terrified driver who couldn’t understand why his life was still required.

Jean Eric kicked out, swinging his arm and catching one of the marshals unprepared, and making a break for the pit exit. The crowd gasped in unison, as the second marshal gave chase, tripping Jean Eric with a well timed kick to the heel, and pulling the pistol before the Frenchman had time to shout. When the bullet met his skull Kimi’s stomach turned, and he couldn’t stop himself throwing up into his own hands.

‘Just come on, man. Don’t stand and stare.’ Seb hissed as he strode past, looking just as pale and shocked as Kimi felt.

He cleaned himself up in the bathroom on the way, climbing the steps to the podium with feet so heavy they felt like lead. The sensation of relief that Fernando was safe had nosedived into complete despair the second he’d witnessed a fellow driver’s brain matter being splattered across the asphalt. No amount of sprayed champagne and trophy waving would change that, but the opportunity to speak to Seb allowed a small positive to the day. As they posed for the podium photographs, their fake smiles burning their cheeks, he quickly whispered his request in the German’s ear and Seb nodded, replying that they would fix up a meeting after Canada, under the pretence of contract negotiations. Everyone knew that Red Bull wanted Kimi.

 

Fernando’s hands were the only consolation to him, when they found their way beneath the material of his team shirt and wandered up his back to his shoulder blades. His grip was firm and Kimi began to relax as he finally felt safe again.

‘You ran a good race today.’

Kimi mumbled a laugh into the Spaniard’s collarbone, as they curled around each other on the mattress, trying to forget the day as quickly as he could. Fernando it seemed had other ideas.

‘I don’t understand why they had to do that to Jean Eric.’ He said softly. ‘It was exactly like he said, they had their kill. Poor Max too, he didn’t deserve to go out like that, he was just a kid.’

‘The stewards ruled that Jev caused the accident while he was running last, I overheard two marshals talking about it. You should have heard them laughing, Nando, the pigs just mocked them for dying.’ Kimi spat, twisting from Fernando’s arms and clutching at his head, as he often did on race days.

‘What were you talking to Seb about?’

Kimi hadn’t expected Fernando to ask him about that. He figured he’d been tactful enough for the conversation to go unnoticed.

‘I was just congratulating him.’

The Spaniard exhaled noisily. ‘Don’t fucking lie to me Kimi. You’re still pushing this fight back nonsense, aren’t you?’

The air was heavy with Fernando’s anger and Kimi’s petulance.

‘I’m leaving.’

Fernando climbed quickly from the mattress, reaching for his clothes as the Finn fumbled the blankets to get within grabbing distance, ripping the jeans from his hands and flinging them across the floor.

‘I couldn’t help it! Nando, please?’ Kimi pleaded, trying to stop Fernando moving away with a vice-like grip.

‘You lied to me. I told you to drop it.’

‘We’re going to die anyway!’ Kimi said, finally sounding defeated. ‘Damn it, I can’t just let them terminate me knowing I didn’t at least try to save myself, or you, or all of them. Do you honestly think you’re going to last five years?’

Fernando rubbed his temples, because he didn’t have an answer to that question. He was pretty sure that Kimi didn’t think he’d last, and now that the Finn was approaching his thirty-sixth birthday he could at least say the odds were more in his favour.

‘I can’t doubt myself, Kimi. You can’t ask me this, it’s not fair.’

Kimi clambered across the mattress, perching beside his companion on his knees. ‘What’s not fair is that you have to. You should be the one deciding to race, not them.’

Fernando watched him, curious at the glint in Kimi’s eyes.

‘What if nobody raced? I’ve read the rules, Nando, and if nobody crosses the start line there’s no race. If there’s no race how can anybody lose? Nobody can retire, nobody can crash. If we can get everyone to just climb out of their cars when the lights go out… They can’t terminate all of us; we just have to stand together!’

Despite his best efforts Fernando knew that Kimi wasn’t going to let this notion drop. It was a clever idea, he had done his homework, and in reality it could work, but everyone would have to agree, and if nobody could take part in the race, it would mean nobody could take the victory.

It was too risky.

‘We can’t Kimi, I’m sorry.’ Fernando said.

Kimi’s shoulders sank and the Spaniard felt the sharp stab of guilt in his gut. What if this was the only thing keeping him going? What if Kimi’s defiance was the one shred of hope he was clinging to, to avoid the stewards?

The fact was he was scared and in his heart he felt that Kimi’s chances of survival were better if he just carried on racing. He was still quick and his driving skills as sharp as a razor. The rumours about Red Bull wanting him only rubber stamped the fact that Kimi was not past it, far from it, he was more than capable of winning another championship. The only fear he really had was unforeseen circumstances, the unruly rookie charging his way through the first corner, a back-marker who hasn’t looked in his mirrors or a stray piece of bodywork taking out a tyre. Those were the moments when all the driving aptitude in the world wouldn’t save you.

 

‘Do you love me?’

Kimi’s question, on the evening after the Canadian Grand Prix, knocked Fernando for six. It wasn’t something he had a. expected, or b. felt he had to think about.

‘Yes.’ He replied simply, looking at Kimi with a plain and honest expression.

The Finn shrugged, lying back against the blankets with his arms folded behind his head, smirking to himself.

‘Can I assume that this feeling isn’t reciprocated?’ Fernando asked.

Kimi glanced at the overly dramatic pout being thrown in his direction and rolled his eyes. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think you’re an idiot.’ Fernando said, yelping as Kimi’s arm slipped around his neck, pulling him into a headlock. ‘Hey!’

They tumbled onto the mattress, laugher filling the empty steel truck around them; tears forming at the corners of Kimi’s eyes when Fernando reappeared from his grip red faced and breathless.

‘So what do you think?’

Fernando’s lopsided grin appeared as he collapsed beside the Finn and linked their fingers together. ‘I know you love me. Otherwise, what the fuck are we doing here?’

 

Kimi lay awake, staring up at the truck’s roof, as Fernando snored softly down his ear. He was meeting with Sebastian the following week, in a carefully orchestrated event which had taken three weeks to arrange, and was beginning to feel the nerves surrounding what he was planning to do. He was sure it could work, it was just a case of getting the word out to the drivers, and the best person to have onboard from the beginning would be Seb.

The German had won again in Canada, taking his lead over Kimi in the championship up to fifteen points. It wasn’t a concern to the Finn, he had overcome worse deficits in the past and his best tracks were still yet to come, they didn’t call him King of Spa because he spent too much time in the bath! Kimi had seen the look in Seb’s eyes when the young driver Stephane Richelmi was led down the pit lane at the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve. He had been brought in to replace Jean Eric, and could barely walk straight beside the marshals for the sobs that were shaking his body. He was just a kid, like Max the race before, signed up for the long term and lasting only one race.

It was the Red Bull connection that must have baulked Seb, because his stoic expression faltered at the sight of Stephane, and Kimi wondered if he might break down. He knew that it was now the best time to get him on side, while his guard wasn’t as strong and his emotions were high. The date was set for Tuesday, in a private room in the Milton Keynes Hilton hotel, under the pretence of contract negotiations for a seat at Red Bull for Kimi in 2017.

Fernando shifted in his sleep and Kimi pushed his lips against his forehead, hearing the contented murmur escape him. He felt immediately sad because these were the moments he wished he could keep, just hit the pause button and live within these brief hours with Fernando.

He didn’t even want to race anymore and he wished he’d listened to his head at the end of 2013 when it told him he needed to get out. All it had taken was the thought that he had one last attempt to win one last championship, and he had signed the contract binding him to the sport when the new regulations were brought in. He wasn’t stupid, but at the same time he had been quite naïve to think that there wouldn’t be a way out once the pen had hit the paper. Then they announced the terminations and his world had fallen into disarray as he searched through the endless volumes of text trying to find a loophole, a mistake that would be the first foothold to freedom. He knew the regulations from start to finish, and the ‘no race, no terminations’ clause, seemed like the only plausible way to keep everyone alive.

 

‘I guess it could work.’

Sebastian didn’t sound as convinced as Kimi had hoped, after he had spent half an hour explaining the idea to him in a hushed voice.

‘Everyone just climbs out of their car, Seb, and they don’t start the race.’

‘Wouldn’t they just terminate us?’

Kimi shook his head. ‘No not all of us, it’d destroy the sport, what’s left of it anyway.’

Seb tapped his chin thoughtfully. ‘It’s risky.’

‘It’s the only chance we’ve got. How long do you have left?’

Despite the tone of the question the German managed a smile. ‘Thirteen years.’

Kimi got to his feet and strolled across to the window, staring down at the city below. ‘…and you never wish you could just walk away?’

‘Every race.’ Seb replied, sadness filling his eyes as glanced across the room. ‘The one person I never imagined I’d envy was Mark, but look at what being an old man got him; a life with his family.’

‘You’ve won your championships, Seb, you don’t have anything left to prove.’

Seb nodded joining Kimi beside the window. ‘No race, no termination?’

‘Nobody crosses the line to start.’ Kimi confirmed. ‘Will you help me get the word out?’

‘It would take a while, but I don’t see why the others wouldn’t agree. Let me get back to you, okay?’

Seb stuck out his hand and Kimi grasped it tightly, feeling the old sense of camaraderie they used to have with each other returning, and he felt like he had made the right decision coming to the German, even against Fernando’s concerns.

When he left the hotel twenty minutes later the assembled journalists flocked to him like pigeons round throw breadcrumbs.

‘How did the negotiations go Kimi?’

He smiled, because he could answer this question without the usual dishonesty he kept in plentiful reserve for the media.

‘It went really well, so I guess we’ll see what happens.’

 

Fernando looked out across the green fields recalling the fondness he had for the Oxfordshire countryside. The British Grand Prix had always been one of his favourites, and was held in even higher esteem now that the British fans had made their opinion of the new regulations very clear. Instead of the usual mass desertion of the grandstands when a driver had been taken for termination, the Silverstone faithful had just stopped showing up. Although it made him a little sad to think of fans turning their back on Formula One, Fernando would be the first to admit that racing around empty grandstands was a whole lot more appealing than ones filled with rabid, blood thirsty hooligans.

He had expected to hear something by now, some whispered rumour carried from crew to crew, about the plan Kimi had concocted. Fernando wasn’t stupid, so when he saw the story in the back of the newspaper about Kimi and Seb’s ‘contract talks’ he knew that the Finn had disregarded his warnings and put his trust in the quadruple World Champion.

Still it didn’t change how he felt about Kimi, only now his anxiety levels were bordering on becoming a distraction, and his dreams were interrupted with terrifying scenes. Previous races replayed themselves to him while he slept, the marshals escorting drivers away, Max Chilton’s broken neck, Stephane’s tears and the gun shot against Jean Eric’s skull. Only the faces of all these victims of the stewards were altered, as had the race suits, because every time Fernando started awake, sweat laced and panic ridden, every one of them was Kimi’s.

‘What is it?’ Kimi asked in the darkness.

The body beside him had jerked awake so violently his own eyes had snapped open in immediate response.

Fernando’s heaving breaths were loud against the silence of the truck, and without warning turned to sobs. Kimi crawled to him, wrapping his arms around the Spaniard’s trembling shoulders until he calmed enough to speak.

‘It was you.’ Fernando whispered, dropping his head into his hands and pushing the heels against his eyes. ‘It’s always you now. I can’t bear it.’

Kimi kissed his temple and swept a thumb across Fernando’s cheek to clear away the tear which was creeping down it. He knew this was his fault, the nightmares, and that while he was running around trying to drum up support for his cause the only person he really cared about was falling to pieces.

‘I’m sorry.’

Fernando made a noise which sounded like disagreement, but Kimi ignored it, cupping his face in his hands and gently pulling it towards him, brushing his lips against the Spaniard’s so softly he stopped crying momentarily to shiver.

‘It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll carry on racing, we’ll see it out.’

Kimi’s body was completely unprepared for the surprise of Fernando crashing into him and they toppled back onto the mattress, the Spaniard’s fingers locked around the hair at the nape of his neck as his lips found Kimi’s in a desperate attempt to push the last fading images of the nightmares away.

This time it had been Charles, the Caterham driver, who had retired on lap seventeen with a hydraulic failure. Fernando had made the mistake of leaving the television on in his private room after the race, and seen the replay of the whole sorry affair. Charles had been driven into the pits on the back of a scooter, and waited meekly outside the steward’s office, quiet as a mouse, not a flicker of emotion on his face, as though he had already lost the will to live and was patiently awaiting his fate.

Nobody knew that his girlfriend had sneaked into the pit-lane.

She had bolted out of the Caterham garage and down the tarmac towards Charles, tears streaming down her cheeks as she ran. The marshals spotted her and tried to head her off, but she twisted from their grip and when she reached the Frenchman she flung her arms around him, weeping hysterically into his shoulder as more marshals appeared, pulling her limbs away as she screamed. Charles’ face remained impassive, and he kissed the tips of his fingers and held them out to her as the doors to the steward’s block opened and he turned away.

Fernando had continued to stare at the screen long after the footage had finished. Feeling a terrible grief, not just for Charles, but for the world he used to know that didn’t exist anymore. Maybe Kimi was right and they really did need to stand up and fight.

But hearing the words didn’t make him feel any better, and the images rushed through his mind again as clutched desperately at Kimi’s back, overwhelmed by the sense of urgency that was pulsing through his veins with the quickened beat of his heart.

Kimi held him tightly, pulling the Spaniard on top of him and sliding his hands down his back, his fingers finding their way beneath the fabric of his boxers. The lips against his parted to groan appreciatively and allowed Kimi’s tongue entry, first softly and then escalating into a full tousle as Fernando breathed noisily against his cheek.

It hadn’t been like this the first time, after months of just spending time together had turned into nights and then the first nervous suggestion of something more. Neither of them had time for girlfriends, and to be honest, neither of them wanted to get close to someone they may eventually have to leave behind to grieve. So when one night a sleeping Kimi’s arm had crept around Fernando, the Spaniard had simply smiled contentedly and linked their fingers together.

A few weeks later a stuttering Fernando asking if Kimi would mind if he kissed him was silenced by the Finn’s lips, an action which really surprised them both. They’d laughed awkwardly and when Fernando leaned in for a second helping, he’d accidentally head butted Kimi, which destroyed the moment in fits of giggles.

And when, one night, the kissing had evolved into wandering hands and a want that had turned into need, they were so comfortable together that there was no question about whether they should or shouldn’t.

Of course, they hadn’t thought of leaving each other.

Fernando’s fingers traced a trail down Kimi’s stomach, dancing out over the rise of his hip bone and down to the straining peak in the cotton of his underwear, smiling at the involuntary movement towards his hand. Kimi’s open mouthed whine made Fernando smile and he locked his teeth round his lower lip, pulling back gently, until the volume increased.

Kimi’s arms draped lazily over Fernando’s shoulders, fingers now stroking him so slowly and firmly that he’d forgotten what they were even talking about prior to what they were now doing. He could feel the muscles in the Spaniard’s shoulders tighten and relax, and the shortness of his breath against his own neck as he brought Kimi closer to the edge.

‘Wait.’

Fernando blinked, his eyes wide and curious in the pale green light. ‘What is it?’

‘You don’t need to convince me.’

‘I wasn’t trying to.’

‘We’ll carry on racing, we’ll get through this and we’ll get out.’ Kimi said. ‘If we make it, we’ll have the rest of our lives to forget about this bullshit.’

Kimi pushed Fernando onto his back, grinding his hips down against him and grasping at his arse cheeks while the Fernando helpfully pulled his shorts down to his knees. Kimi kicked them off and dropped down to tease his tongue across his companion’s nipple. Fernando squirmed, but the twitch of his dick pulled a chuckle from deep in Kimi’s chest, and he sank his teeth into the tender flesh.

‘You fucker.’ Fernando hissed.

‘You got it.’ Kimi replied darkly, and Fernando’s world exploded.

 

The sunshine on the grid at the Nurburgring was bright and warm as the crews fluttered around the cars assembled on the grid. Fernando had qualified in fifth, with Kimi alongside him in sixth, in a Saturday afternoon session that had seen no less than seven accidents as the drivers tried to negotiate their way around all sixteen miles of Nordschleife, which had been added to the calendar instead of the usual Hockenheim. As a result of the unusual session, the Sauber duo of Nico Hulkenberg and Esteban Gutierrez had locked out the front row, and the German crowd was ravenous,

Kimi looked across at Fernando and smiled, there had been no talk of rebellions against the stewards at all since his meeting with Sebastian, and despite the fact he had been somewhat unwillingly giving up his cause, he didn’t feel too bad about it. Seb hadn’t said a word to him, or anyone else it would seem, about continuing the plan, and Fernando had heard nothing in his garage to suggest the news was travelling.

He didn’t want to admit it, but deep down inside he was almost relieved.

Mark, his engineer, tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Do you have any idea why you might be under investigation before the race, Kimi?’

The Finn straightened up, looking at Mark with a bemused expression. ‘Not a clue, why?’

‘We just had the notification on the radio, mate. Car number three, that’s you.’

Kimi shrugged, trying to remember anything that he could have an impact on the rules. Thinking back to qualifying he was sure he’d done everything right, and it wasn’t usual for a driver to start a race under investigation. He rubbed his brow and blew out his cheeks, recalling nothing, and pulled on his balaclava.

Fernando stared out of his cockpit at the disappearing figure of Kimi’s engineer as he hurried back to the pit-wall. His sudden arrival and slightly harassed demeanour had done nothing for his pre-race jitters, so he peered round at the Lotus beside him trying to read Kimi’s body language for an explanation.

‘Okay Fernando,’ Andrea’s voice crackled in his headphones, ‘we’re starting on the soft compound but they’re only going to last about six laps. I don’t even know if we’re going to have enough rubber to get us race distance. Jesus, Fernando...’ His voice trailed away.

‘We just got hope someone else’s number is up today Andrea, we can do our best, nothing more.’

 

The grandstands erupted as the lights went out, and all twenty-four cars lit their tyres up in an attempt to get away quickly. At the first corner, there was a gasp as Daniel Ricciardo’s Red Bull took a knock from Jenson Button’s McLaren, but the car spun out of harm’s reach onto the grass and Daniel was soon chasing after the tail end of the pack.

‘Was it clean?’ Fernando yelled into the radio.

‘All through Fernando, all through.’

He gripped the steering wheel so tight he feared he may snap it, feeling incredibly guilty for what he was wishing for, which was essentially the loss of another driver to save his and Kimi’s skin. He’d never done it before, but something Kimi had said the previous night had struck a chord so strong in him that he was now clinging to the notion in order to stay positive, and stay alive.

‘We’ll have the rest of our lives…’

As he powered around the twists and turns of the German circuit he thought back to that night at Silverstone. How he’d woken in such terror to be comforted by Kimi, who had set his beliefs aside to put Fernando’s mind at ease. He loved him enough to let what was happening to him continue, so it was only fair that Fernando should now have one single goal; keeping Kimi alive.

When he came in for his first pit-stop he was able to take a look at the circuit’s grandstand screen, which usually displayed the information about a driver who was to be terminated, if it had been decided yet, or general race information, if it hadn’t. In huge black letters beneath a photograph of Kimi, sat the words ‘Under Investigation’ and Fernando felt the air rush out of his lungs.

‘Andrea!’

The radio crackled.

‘Andrea! For fuck’s sake!’

‘Fernando, you know I can’t answer you.’

‘I’m begging you, what’s happened? You have to tell my why!’

The radio went silent and a miniscule click told Fernando that he’d been turned off.

The sob escaped him before he even knew it was coming, his throat constricting painfully as the sound reverberated within his helmet. If Kimi was disqualified it would mean instant termination, regardless of anybody retiring first and for a moment he considered driving his Ferrari into the gravel at the next corner.

He thought about clipping the car in front, which he was about to lap, to bring about a puncture, and, after realising he was actually willing to sacrifice another driver, smashed his fist into his helmet in frustration.

The radio crackled.

‘Fernando, we have a gearbox hydraulics problem, you need to short shift first to third please. Short shift first to third. Do not select second Fernando.’

‘God damn it, Felipe!’

An uncomfortable pause preceded Andrea’s voice. ‘He’s not touched your car Fernando; we think it happened in Parc Ferme’

The Spaniard blinked within his helmet. The only people allowed access to the cars when they were in Parc Ferme were the marshals and the stewards, and the very thought of it brought a sudden claustrophobic sensation to his chest.

‘I’m sorry.’ Andrea said, but his voice was barely audible above the roar of the engine behind.

Fernando flicked the switch at the top of his steering wheel and the crackle faded to nothing, he wasn’t racing for a championship anymore, or a win, or even a point. The victory he’d achieve today would be walking away with his life.

Kimi powered out of the pit lane, wary of the white line to his left as he swept around the inside of turn one. Ahead of him, just cresting the hill, was the rear wing of a backmarker, and Kimi steeled himself to get a nice clean overtake to keep himself out of trouble. He was still under investigation, for what he still had no idea, and while he was cruising around in fourth, in plenty of space, his Lotus crew were frantically digging for information.

The car in front was visibly struggling, and as Kimi got close he realised it was Fernando.

As he sat behind, somehow unable to complete the overtake, he realised that it was very unlikely that the Ferrari would last the race. There was something spitting out from the diffuser and splattering across Kimi’s helmet visor; oil.

‘Kimi, what are you playing at?’ Mark snapped down the radio. ‘If his engine blows he’s going to take you with him. Move your ass!’

As the two cars travelled down the straight side by side, Kimi peered over at the Ferrari’s cockpit and in a brief movement of his hand, Fernando saluted his friend.

‘What are you doing?!’ Mark’s incredulous voice screeched through Kimi’s ears again. ‘He’s dead in the water, are you trying to get yourself disqualified?’

Kimi thought about the question. If he was disqualified, it wouldn’t matter if Fernando retired or not, he would be the one who was marched off to the stewards for termination. If only he could work out why he was under investigation, he could stick it to Bernie and the powers that be in one grand gesture of defiance.

By lap thirty five, the Lotus still hadn’t left the Ferrari, and Kimi’s race engineer had thrown his headset at the pit wall in angry frustration, having heard nothing from the Finn in over ten laps.

Fernando’s gearbox was now only capable of third to sixth gears, making the slowest corners and the chicane particularly perilous, and the oil pressure was now dropping to levels that made the Spaniard feel that termination was now almost inevitable.

The two Caterhams sailed by, visors peeking over the cockpit sides curiously at the slow moving duo. Fernando waved across at Kimi, gesturing violently, as he had done on the straight every lap since he had joined him, for him to overtake.

Two more cars and they’d be stone last, with only three laps left.

At the beginning of the last lap the Ferrari gearbox jammed itself in third, and the crowd roared.

Fernando hadn’t really come to terms with the idea of dying. Perhaps it was the belief that he was talented enough to make it through till the end, or the security of knowing that he was experienced enough to react to situations that younger drivers couldn’t, that kept his mind from ever accepting reality.

He remembered the dream he had, the last night he and Kimi spent together, and smiled at the irony of how he’d felt closer to him that he thought he ever had before, like it was the beginning of a new stage, instead of the end of everything.

Fernando had been standing in a deserted pit-lane; it was night time, so he assumed it must have been Singapore, staring in silent disbelief as two marshals walked either side of Kimi towards a black door at the end, which was set right into the Armco.

In the dream Kimi wasn’t making a fuss, and for several weeks beforehand Fernando had been having the same dream over and over, always in Singapore, always the black door. Kimi never turned, he always walked away.

In the last dream Kimi had turned, kissed the tips of his fingers and grinned at Fernando, which had bought about the frantic screaming that had eventually woken him up, into the ultimate relief that had been Kimi’s arms.

He could feel the door’s presence, heavy like the pressure of a storm around him, only this time it was beckoning him

The noise in the grandstands rose, and Fernando’s eyes snapped to his mirrors, expecting to see bits of his gearbox skittering across the track. Seeing nothing, he checked his oil pressure, and it was still the same. Confused, he strained to look at the screens as he rounded the Carousel.

Kimi had been disqualified.

 

By the time they made it back to the pit straight, on the last lap, the Marussias had passed, and Kimi’s refusal to drive away left Fernando cursing in an incandescent rage as the Lotus slowed to almost to a standstill to take the last place.

Fernando steered them both onto the grass, racing against the time it would take for the marshals to reach them, and fought his way out of the cockpit. Mark, Kimi’s engineer, was also sprinting across the track, pulling the Finn by his shoulders out of the car.

‘What the fuck did you do Kimi? Why are they saying you’re organising a driver strike?’

Kimi pulled his helmet off and stared, wide eyed, back at the frantic man in front of him. ‘I…’

Mark’s face crumbled. ‘Kimi, it’s over.’

Kimi’s eyes landed on Fernando, and while the marshals headed straight for them, they just held each other’s gaze.

‘I shouldn’t have gone to him.’ Kimi muttered, as a marshal’s hand arrived on his arm, pushing him roughly towards the pit lane.

‘Don’t.’ Fernando said softly, brushing the man from Kimi’s suit so they could walk, the Spaniard’s arm around his shoulder, to their fate together.

 

Fernando had tried to argue his own head into the noose when they reached the steward’s block; the marshals had said they would have to fetch someone, so he and Kimi had sat outside while the press flocked around them, getting their last pictures of at least one marked man.

‘Do you think the disqualification will stand Kimi?’

Kimi stared up at the sunshine as it bore down on them, hot and bright from a clear blue sky, ignoring everything except the contact his fingers had with Fernando’s, shoved into the space between their legs in a final concealed moment of unity.

He didn’t care anymore, and when the marshal reappeared, stating that even if the disqualification was rescinded, Kimi would still be classified as last.

He could feel Fernando’s agitation begin to increase, he knew the Spaniard had tried to save his skin, but it was in vain, because the stewards didn’t believe him.

‘Let’s go Kimi.’

He smiled, brushing his hand through his hair and then sliding his black and gold cap on the wrong way round. He looked at Fernando whose eyes were glassy and his mouth ajar, still in a state of shock, and Kimi couldn’t help but reach out and stroke the Spaniard’s cheek.

‘See you around?’ He asked.

Fernando’s eyes closed at the touch and a solitary tear traced a line down his face.

‘Sure.’

Still the cameras snapped, and Kimi began to walk away, two marshals now flanking him as he headed for the door. Behind him, Fernando was now almost rooted to the spot, and as the Finn turned his head, kissed the tips of his fingers, just as Charles had, and smiled in that crooked, goofy way that always made Fernando’s heart skip a beat, he finally felt the searing pain seep through every part of his body.

The door closed, and the crowd roared.


End file.
